Run for Your Life (7 page)

I thought of the 21 Club killing and I started to get the vague, uneasy hunch that we were dealing with the same man.

There was nothing vague about my feeling that this was going to be one heck of a long day. That settled down on me like a soggy raincoat.

Chapter 16

A minor commotion at the store’s ground–floor entrance signaled the arrival of the medical examiner. I got out of his way and put in a call to Midtown South to find out if any more information had come to light about the other assaults that Commissioner Daly had mentioned.

The detective who’d caught the case was a newly promoted woman named Beth Peters, whom I’d never met before.

“The girl in the subway says somebody shoved her. She wasn’t paying attention, so she didn’t see who. But a dozen witnesses saw a man standing right beside her. One elderly lady swears he bumped her deliberately with his hip, and several others think he might have.”

“Description of the guy?” I said.

“Not anything like you’d think. A businessman, very well groomed, wearing a quote unquote ‘gorgeous’ tailored gray suit. White male, around thirty. Black hair, six two, two hundred pounds. In other words, a metrosexual sociopath. Very twenty–first–century, right?”

Detective Peters was crisp, clear, and sardonic. I decided I was going to get along fine with her.

“Just right, unfortunately,” I said. “Anything on video, like which direction he headed?”

“We collected surveillance tapes from Macy’s and a few other places around Herald Square. The witnesses are viewing them as we speak, but I’m not holding my breath. Thirty–fourth and Seventh at morning rush, it looks like outside Yankee Stadium after a play–off game.”

A possible correspondence ticked in my brain — between a man who was beautifully dressed and groomed, and the ultra–high–fashion men’s store where I was standing. Was there some kind of upper–class angle?

“At least we’ll have your witnesses to ID this maniac once we catch him,” I said. “Thanks, Beth. Let’s keep each other posted.”

When I finished the call, I granted myself a sixty–second time–out to take a leak. The manager’s men’s room, though small, was almost as luxurious as the rest of the store. And it didn’t smell like puke. I gave it four stars.

I took the opportunity to phone back home.

“I’m really sorry,” I told Mary Catherine when she answered. “You know I wanted to take today off to give you a hand, but there’s this wacko — or maybe wackos — running around and … anyway, suffice it to say, I’m not going to be home for a while.”

“I’m doing fine, Mike. Truth is, I’m glad to get you out from underneath me feet,” she said.

I wasn’t sure that was a compliment, but I was damn sure that the lass was a trouper.

“Thanks a million, Mary,” I said. “I’ll check in again when I get a chance.”

“Wait, someone here wants to talk to you,” she said.

“Daddy?” It was Chrissy, my youngest. Her “sore froath,” as she called it, actually sounded a little better. Thank God for small mercies.

“Daddy, please tell Ricky to stop bothering me,” she said. “It’s my turn to watch TV.”

Yet another bonus to being a widower, I thought. Oh, the joys of teleparenting.

“Put him on, Peep,” I said.

That’s when somebody else tried to walk into the small bathroom, and opened the door so hard it crashed into my back. I fumbled for my flying phone and managed to save it from the urinal by sheer luck.

“Ocupado, you moron,” I yelled, kick–slamming the door closed behind me.

What a day, I thought. Then — day? What the hell was I saying? What a lifetime.

Chapter 17

The next priority on my list was to start comparing descriptions of the suspects in the different incidents. The problem was, I had only the one that Beth Peters had given me. That kind of information from the 21 Club hadn’t gotten to me yet. I’d learned from Lavery that the street search and canvass of local doormen around the Polo store had produced nothing. And we were still waiting for a coherent statement from the men’s shop clerk whose coworker had been gunned down.

I decided it was time for some coaxing.

His name was Patrick Cardone. He was being cared for by EMTs in an ambulance that was still outside, double–parked on Madison Avenue. As I walked up to it, I saw him through the open rear door, sitting on a stretcher and crying.

I didn’t like intruding on people who’d just experienced a tragedy, but it had to be done, and doing it was my job. I tried to handle it as gently as I knew how.

I waited until he was between sobbing spells, then tapped on the door of the ambulance, at the same time giving the paramedics the high sign that I was taking over.

“Hi, Patrick? My name’s Mike,” I said, flashing my badge as I climbed in and quietly closed the door behind me. “I can only imagine how awful you’re feeling. You went through a terrible, traumatic experience, and the last thing I want to do is make it worse. But I need your help — me, and all the other people in this city. Do you feel up to talking for a minute?”

The clerk wiped his tearful face with his hands, too distraught to pay attention to the box of tissues beside him.

“Here,” I said, setting the box on his knees. He gave me a grateful look.

“Tell me about Kyle,” I said. “Was he a friend?”

“Oh, yes,” Cardone said emphatically, dabbing at his eyes. “We used to ride in to work together on Saturday mornings, and when he picked me up at my place in Brooklyn Heights, he’d have a coffee for me. You know how many kind people like him there are in this city? I’ll tell you — exactly zero. And that … that bastard in the Mets jersey just shot him. Just came in and shot him and? —”

“Whoa, wait,” I said. “The man who shot him was wearing what?”

“An orange Mets jersey. ‘Wright,’ it said across the back, and these atrocious basketball shorts and a … a green Jets cap.”

“This is very important,” I said. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“One thing I know, it’s clothes,” Cardone said, with a trace of wounded dignity. “His were ridiculous. Like a comic advertisement for the Sports Authority.”

So we had men wearing completely different outfits. Well, the incident in the subway and the Polo shooting had taken place hours apart. It was conceivable that it was the same guy, and he’d changed clothes. Or were there two psychos? A tag team? Maybe there was a terrorist angle after all. As Mary Catherine liked to say, Shite.

“What else did you notice?” I said. “His hair color, all that?”

“He had big sunglasses, and the cap was pulled low. His hair was darkish, and he was white, fairly tall. Everything else about him was a haze. Except his clothes, of course. And the gun he put to my head. It was square and silver.”

White, darkish hair, fairly tall — that jibed with the subway suspect.

“Did he say anything?” I asked.

Patrick Cardone closed his eyes as he nodded.

“He said, ‘You are the witness to history, I envy you.’?”

That unsettling sensation came back again — that we were dealing with a maniac, and maybe a smart one.

I stood up to go, and patted Cardone’s back.

“You did great, Patrick. I’m not kidding — the best possible way to help your buddy Kyle. We’re going to catch this guy, okay? I’m going to leave my card right here next to you. If you think of anything else, you call me, I don’t care what time it is.”

I thanked him again and hopped down into the street, already opening my cell phone.

“Chief, I just got a description of the Polo shooter,” I said when McGinnis answered. “Same physical type as the subway guy, but he was wearing an orange Mets jersey.”

“An orange what?” McGinnis fumed. “I just heard from the Twenty–one Club scene, and they’re saying that the shooter was dressed like a bike messenger and actually left on a ten–speed. But otherwise, he looked like the subway guy, too.”

“It gets worse, Chief,” I said. “He spoke to one of the other clerks here, and told him that he was a quote ‘witness to history’ unquote.”

“Christ on a cross! Okay, I’ll put all that out over the wire. You triple–check the details there, then get down to the clambake at Twenty–one and see if you can make any sense of it.”

Now we were getting into the realm of nightmare, I thought.

Part Two

Puke By The Gallon

Chapter 18

In the small, blessedly quiet foyer outside the Bennett apartment, Mary Catherine picked up the day’s mail, and then paused for a moment. What a nice little space, she thought, lingering before the framed architectural drawings, the antique light fixture, the tarnished copper umbrella stand, the next–door neighbors, the Underhills, had arranged a cornucopia of golden leaves, baby pumpkins, and squash on the mail table.

But the pleasant tour ended all too soon as she came back to the Bennett apartment. She took a deep breath, bracing herself, and opened the door.

Sound slammed into her like a collapsed wall as she stepped inside. In the living room, Trent and Ricky were still loudly squabbling over PlayStation rights. Not to be outdone, Chrissy and Fiona had become locked in a DVD death match at their bedroom computer. The old, overworked washing machine accompanied the yells, thundering from the kitchen as if a full rehearsal of the musical Stomp was under way.

Mary Catherine jumped back as a small, yowling, vomit–colored object streaked between her feet. She stared at it, refusing to believe her eyes. But it was true.

Somebody had just thrown up on Socky, the cat.

Amid all the clamor, she could hardly hear the phone ringing. Her first thought was to let the machine pick it up. The last thing she needed was another hassle. But then she decided, The heck with it. Things couldn’t get worse. She stepped over to the wall phone and lifted it off the hook.

“Bennett residence,” she half screamed.

The caller was a woman who spoke in a clipped, no–nonsense tone. “This is Sister Sheilah from Holy Name.”

Oh, Lord, Mary Catherine thought — the kids’ principal. This was not going to be good news. Well, it served her right for taunting fate.

The din seemed, if anything, to be getting even louder. She glanced around, trying to think of a quick way to quiet it. Then inspiration hit.

“Yes, Sister. This is Mary Catherine, the children’s au pair. Could you hold on one second?”

She calmly set down the phone, got the stepladder out of the pantry, and climbed up to the electrical box on the wall beside the door. As she unscrewed each of the four fuses, the noise abruptly stopped — the TV, the computer game, the washing machine, and finally, the voices.

Mary Catherine picked up the phone again and said, “Sorry, Sister. I’ve a bit of a mutiny on my hands here. What can I do for you?”

She closed her eyes as the principal curtly informed her that Shawna and Brian, half of the Bennett faction that Mary Catherine had managed to get out the door this morning, had “become ill.” They were in the school nurse’s office and had to be picked up immediately.

Perfect, she thought. Mike was involved in something too serious to break away from, and she couldn’t leave the little ones here alone.

She assured Sister Sheilah that she’d have someone pick up the latest casualties as soon as humanly possible, and she called Mike’s grandfather, Seamus. This time, fate relented. He was available to go get them right away.

Mary Catherine had just finished talking to him when Ricky, Trent, Fiona, and Chrissy wandered into the kitchen with a chorus of complaints.

“The TV stopped!”

“So’d my computer!”

“Yeah, like — everything.”

“Must be a power blackout,” Mary Catherine said, shrugging. “Nothing to be done about it.” She rummaged in the utility drawer and took out a deck of cards. “Have you guys ever played blackjack?”

Ten minutes later, the kitchen island had become a card table with Trent as the dealer and the others squinting at their hands. The noise level was reduced to the little guys counting out loud and grappling with the rules. Mary Catherine smiled. She wasn’t one to encourage gambling, but she was pleased to see them having fun without batteries. She decided to make sure the entertainment devices were turned off, then screw the fuses back in so she could finish the laundry and make soup. They’d be too absorbed to notice.

But first, there was an important matter to take care of. Socky was still complaining piteously and trying to rub its vomit–stained coat against her ankles. She gingerly lifted the cat by the back of the neck.

“You’ll thank me in the long run,” she said, and carried it, clawing the air in furious protest, to the kitchen sink.

Chapter 19

“You must be a cop, because you certainly don’t look like a customer,” a young woman called to me as I was exiting the Polo store.

Well, if it isn’t Cathy Calvin, intrepid Times police reporter and all–around pain in the ass, I thought.

She wasn’t somebody I wanted to talk to right now. On top of all the problems I was facing, I was still very annoyed at how distinctly unhelpful she’d been at the St. Pat’s Cathedral siege.

But I put a smile on my face and walked over to the barricade where she was standing. The enemies we cannot kill, we must caress, and deception is the art of war, I remembered. Thank God for the classical education I’d received from the Jesuits at Regis High. You needed to brush up on your Machiavelli and Sun Tzu to survive an encounter with this lady.

“Why is it every time we meet, it’s over police sawhorses and crime scene tape?” she said with a big bright grin of her own.

“Good fences make good neighbors, I guess, Cathy,” I said. “I’d love to chat, but I’m really busy.”

“Aw, come on, Mike. How about a quick statement, at least?” she said as she turned on her digital recorder. She was giving me some pretty intense eye contact. For the first time, I noticed that hers were green — striking, and actually kind of playful. She smelled good, too. What was it she’d just said? Oh yeah, she wanted a statement.

I kept it as by–the–book vague and as short as possible. A store clerk had been shot, I told her, and we were withholding his name pending notification of his family.

“Wow, you’re a font of information just like always, Detective Bennett. What about the shooting at Twenty–one? Is it related?”

“We can’t speculate at this time.”

“What’s that mean, really? Chief McGinnis isn’t letting you in on that one?”

“Off the record?” I asked.

“Of course,” Cathy said, clicking off her recorder as I leaned in.

“No comment,” I whispered.

Her emerald eyes didn’t look so frolicsome anymore as she clicked the recorder back on.

“Let’s talk about last night, up in Harlem,” she said, totally switching tracks. “Witnesses say police snipers shot an unarmed man. You were right next to the victim. What did you see?”

I was used to aggressive reporting, but I was starting to wonder where I’d left my pepper spray.

“Cathy, I’d just love to relive that experience, especially with you,” I said. “But as you can see, I’m in the middle of an investigation, so if you’ll excuse me.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it over lunch? You have to eat, right? My treat. And no tape recorder.”

I snapped my fingers in fake disappointment. “Wouldn’t you know it? I already have a reservation at Twenty–one.”

“Very funny,” she said with a wry look. Then she shrugged. “Oh, well. A girl has to try. I probably shouldn’t tell you this — it’ll go to your head — but I could think of worse lunch dates. If you ever put an ad in the personals, I’ll give you a couple of tips on what to say. Tall, nice build, thick brown hair, definitely cute.”